Outside Mylapore
Temple in Chennai, Clay and I left our footgear with a lady sitting with
piles of flowers she was making into necklaces, two of which she handed to
us, and I hesitated,
asking, "How much?" and she replied, "What you wish when you come out." Okay.

As we stood in front of the largest pyramid-like gopuram
arrayed with a crowd of carved deities and other beings, an Indian man
maybe late twenties came up to us and asked what country we were from and
so forth. He said he was studying engineering at a local college and liked
to spend time here at the temple when he could and liked to help tourists
out. He'd been to the States. He spoke good English and was sort of hip, a
little sleezy, reminded me of a friendly guy you might meet outside a bar
in Bangkok. His eyes were wet and red. He asked if we'd like a tour and we
said okay.

He told us many fascinating things about the temple
and about Shiva and Parvati and Lakshmi or wait, is that the same as
Parvati? Can't remember. He said that the temple had been repainted
sometime in recent history. There was a ton of ornate detail in many
different colors up the walls of the gopuram and all over. "How many
people do you think it took to do it?" he asked. Clay answered, "Three
hundred." "Wow," he said, "You got it exactly" and made something out of
it about how cool Clay was.

Standing by the door to the men's
toilet for the best view of the most structures, he mentioned that people
who come here like to support the temple and guides and give ten or twenty
dollars. I said I wouldn't give more than ten or twenty rupees. He paid no
mind and continued the tour.

It's not a big temple though there's a vast pond
outside the walls with a shrine in the middle and steps around that I
guess are part of it. There might be more annexes I don't know about. In
less than five minutes you can walk around the central area with its
gopurams, statues, altars, columns, flame lit, dark holy rooms, and
tethered cow manger area with chip scooping priest.

The tour ended with a big argument about how much money he'd
get for being our guide. He demanded at least five hundred rupees and I
offered fifty. He got so nasty and used such vile language that I was
encouraged to up my offer to one hundred rupees. Finally Clay got him off
our trail by giving him another hundred.

"Well," said Clay, "It's okay. He said
he needs the money to stay in school."

"He's not a student," I said. "He's an addict."

On the way out the lady wanted two hundred rupees for the flowers and
watching our sandals and shoes and I gave her a hundred and we walked off
muttering, "Negotiate price first."

Sometimes guides at sites
can be really helpful like docents at museums, but at others they can be a
bit of a nuisance, even hard to get rid of. A morning in Jaipur comes to
mind. It was October of 2003 and I was at the end of a few weeks in
Rajasthan which I had thoroughly enjoyed. I love Rajasthan. It reminds me
of the US Southwest, is dry so doesn't have a lot of the odors associated
with moist decay and open sewage. There are a lot of elephants there too
which is always a plus - unless they're trampling and goring you which
does happen here in Tamil Nadu now and then.

Each city in Rajasthan had its castle-like fort and color. Jodhpur was
yellow I think - that's the color of the fort and a lot of the clay based
buildings in the city. I was traveling with an Indian guy in his early
twenties. I think we met on the bus from Delhi to Jaipur, the first and
last stop. In Pushkar we teemed up with a women from New Orleans I'd known
in Dharamsala. She was forty and immediately became lovers with my Indian
friend. I became friends with her Dutch friend - just friends. Most
fortunately we were in Pushkar at the time of the camel melee when it's
said 10,000 camels come for the races. It's a small place with a lovely
lake in the center, and was packed with foreigners and Indians who'd come
for the camel races and festivities. I was told it's unique in that it's
main temple is for Brahma, the creator among other talents (not to be
confused with the high caste, Brahman). Anyway, it's a very holy town. No
booze at all - it's dry. I could see white clad Indian men smoking
chillums of hash right in front of soldiers. Bhang lassies, mild shakes,
were widely available. I got a mild one and spent the rest of the day
trying to hold on to some semblance of functional sanity.

The
four of us went to the camel races and were seated in the VIP guest
section except for our Indian buddy who had to sit in the next section
over with some other Indians. He told us not to worry, that he was used to
stuff like that. The camel races were quick, lots of fun, and seemed like
they could have been taking place in any number of centuries.

For dinner we went to a rooftop restaurant that served us beer that had to
be kept under the table. The woman from N.O. took us there because she
knew they served beer because they'd offered it to her at breakfast -
probably, she figured, to let her know for later. I can't remember
anyone's name but we were very close for a couple of weeks. That's
traveling.

That night we went to the carnival grounds outside
of the camel race stadium. We saw a show with young dancers and acrobats
in a tent with speakers that blared music and announcements so loud that I
instantly stuffed tissue from my pocket into my ears. My Indian friend
shrugged and said that that's what they want, indicating the rest of the
audience which seemed to be mostly dark, poor country people. And the show
was unsophisticated and simple, reminding me of La Strada, of an earlier
time.

The last thing I can remember from there is sharing a
small amount of beer and some local harder booze with camel jockeys, one
of whom periodically opened the flap of the tent to peer out, making sure
we wouldn't get caught. And that night in the semi-dark outside I got to
take a brief, trembling ride on a camel that won one of the races I'd
seen.

Later in Jaisalmer we went on a three day camel safari
in the desert with a couple of other now faceless foreigners and two
absolutely indispensable guides. They gave us three hot meals a day
prepared over a campfire. They also knew where to go in the desert. I
remember setting up camp on a sand dune under the stars in what seemed
like seriously remote desert when we spied a small form walking toward us
from a great distance with a flashlight. When close, I could see it was a
little kid, like six years old, carrying a six pack of beer which we
eagerly bought from him. Later some guys on other camels came through and
sold us "opium" which later I learned was a local smoke made from camel
milk and dung and - no I don't remember what it was made from but, though
it was fun smoking it and maybe it did something, it wasn't opium.

The next day my Indian friend who'd been riding his camel too
fast for our guides got carried away racing around and excited the camel
ridden by his new lover so that it took off and she fell off but her foot
was caught in one stirrup so that she was being dragged at high speed
upside down. It looked to me like it was going to kill her. The culprit
leaped off his camel and that's from way up and caught hers by the bit
bringing it to a stop and got her uncaught as the guides screamed Hindi at
him and I thought my gosh he got heroic real quick when he needed to.

Camels are tough to ride, harder than horses which I rode as a kid. I
think they walk differently but they seem sort of the same except, to me,
bumpier. I think these had one hump. Or was it two? At the end of the
safari I, the oldest by far of our group of six, was the only one who was
not sore. They were all groaning and aching. I, however, had walked behind
my camel - as fast as I could possibly walk to keep up - more than I'd
ridden it. Great exercise.

I liked Jaisalmer. I had a nice
little room there in a place run by a Dutch woman and her Muslim mate. It
cost sixty rupees a day, about a dollar and a quarter. Had my own bathroom
and they'd bring me a bucket of hot water if I asked. They'd bring me tea
on the roof at a table with shade - for a nickel. I was there a week. The
worst thing that happened was when a cow died in front and dogs were
eating it up to the extent of crawling inside - and it was really hot and
it started smelling and she couldn't get the city to take it away. I can
remember going to the front door, holding my breath, opening it, and
walking away as quickly and far as I could till gasping in air. Finally
she paid a hundred rupees baksheesh (bribe) and the cow was gone.

There was a really good restaurant and guest house run by an
Austrian man who made unbelievably sumptuous European food. And there was
music. A lot of interesting people hung out at his place. He was trying to
raise money to build a school for the local kids, some of whom were the
performers, wonderful, rhythmic music with a beautiful young dancer, I
think she was fourteen, who wooed us all. The next day a young boy came up
to me and said he'd noticed I liked looking at his sister dancing. I
responded yes she was excellent. "Would you like to go to bed with her?"
he asked. "No thanks," I said. That's the only time that sort of thing has
happened to me in India.

I met a handsome young Aryuvedic
doctor at the Austrian restaurant and later went to his office to see if
anything could be done for my tinnitus. I've got what in one place I saw
called crickets tinnitus. That's what it's like. It always sounds to me
like I'm in a jungle or woods filled with insect sounds. Glad I don't have
the high pitched rining type. Mine is white noise and I don't mind it at
all and mainly don't notice it. I just noticed it now cause I'm writing
this. It's really loud. And it's sort of weird.

I remember the
first time I noticed it. I was driving from Sebastopol to San Francisco to
visit Heather McFarlin and her daughter Avilla. I noticed this sound in
the car and thought that there was a hiss coming over the radio but the
radio wasn't on so I kept trying to turn things off till there was nothing
left but the engine and then, by chance, the traffic came to a standstill
and I turned the engine off and - the sound was still there. I was truly
puzzled. When I pulled into Heather's Pacific Heights driveway, I turned
off the engine, got out, stood on the drive, listened, and with amazement,
threw up my hands and said aloud, "It's me!"

The Aryuvedic
doctor said that tinnitus is related to MS, involved the deterioration of
nerve sheathing in the ears. He said there was a fifty fifty chance his
treatment would help. It might make it better and might not. I went three
times to have him and another doctor and two nurses massage me with oil
and strap a wide leather collar on my head and pour hot oil in it and in
my ears. Each treatment lasted an hour and a half and was very pleasant.
The total bill was like twenty-five dollars. I don't think it helped at
all but I'd like to do it again.

Speaking of doing it again,
back in Jaipur I got a haircut with massage in a little cubby with no
electricity by a man with his scissors and razors and combs and brushes
and tonics and mirror on a ledge. There were a few guys sitting on a bench
talking with him as he massaged my head and neck and cut my hair. How
much? I asked. "Ten rupees," he said. "Can I have another?" "Of course."
Stopped at three.

Remember the very loud entertainment at the
Pushkar carnival? Compared to my first night back in Jaipur that was just
a mic test. There I stayed in a suburban family-run guest home in this
large, clean, well-furnished room with soft bed, modern bathroom (never
saw a tub in India), and TV. Splurged to get a couple of days luxury for
fifteen dollars a night. I just lay in my room all morning, watched TV,
went downstairs for some food and tea, returned and lay down and read,
recuperated from more rugged accommodations, energetic schedule, train
ride.

In the afternoon I went out to walk around the neighborhood
and noticed the open area next to the guest home was being prepared for
some event. I asked and was told there would be religious music provided
by the city government, part of some program to bring traditional culture
to the various residential areas of town. Well, that's good, I thought,
noticing the jumbo speakers. People started to gather and sit on colorful
material and pavement. The musicians arrived - drummers, instruments, a
couple of singers/chanters. I'd come back periodically waiting for them to
get going and finally they did. With the first notes I felt like I'd been
blasted bodily through the air to smash against the wall across the
street. There must be some mistake I thought holding my ears and running
back into the compound where I was staying. Back in my room the windows
were rattling, the walls were throbbing, the music and electronic
distortion and feedback issuing from the speakers was so great I feared
hearing loss from a distance, from the bathroom, from under the covers. I
went out on the balcony with toilet paper in my ears and looked down at
the crowd sitting contented and happy, listening with appreciation as they
were blasted with fierce sound waves. No one leaping up to run away.
Amazing.

I tried to watch TV but could only hear what people
were saying with my ear against the side where I couldn't see the screen
and anyway, more noise is not what I needed. It's a memory that's stored
together with those of nights of illness, headaches, dizziness, and
vomiting, staggering around unable to find surcease of agony. It was hard
for me to believe that this was real, that this could happen, could be
acceptable, was not some alternate psychotic state I'd fallen into.
It went on pounding the room like shells from nearby cannons - till four
in the morning. Really. Unbelievable. The next night I could hear it miles
away, the city's gift to another district, and wondered how the people
over there were doing.

Most of my experiences in Rajasthan
were fine, like visiting the forts, most impressive. In Jodhpur a young
English woman and I went to the Raj's home, had tea in an old English room
with Elephant foot stools which wouldn't be done now by Indians. Half of
that place was for the existing Raj and family and the other half a five
star hotel. There were beautiful grounds with so many flowers in bloom I
wondered how much they kept that up. Men in turbans served complimentary
fruit drinks. We watched the sunset sitting on a balcony overlooking the
city and mountains beyond.

But the less pleasant experiences
are often more fun to tell. The train ride from Jaisulmur in the far West
to Jaipur in the East took off in the afternoon. As I approached the train
on the landing, the owner of the guest house met me and said I'd been
undercharged a little over a hundred rupees by an underling. I went to get
my sleeper bunk only to find a young Finish man there. He had the same
ticket and said I was the third to show up with one as well. I spent my
time standing between cars looking at the scenery till dark, sitting on
the floor reading, lying on the floor my backpack as a pillow, wandering
the aisle between cars, stepping over people sleeping on the floor.

At five in the morning we pulled into Jaipur. As soon as I detrained, I
was met by a young Indian guy who briskly asked, "Rickshaw sir?"

"No thanks," I said.

"Why not?"

"I
don't want one now."

"You must be going somewhere."

"Yeah, I'm going to walk over there and get some tea."

"Drink
your tea and then we'll get you a rickshaw."

"No, I don't want
to go now," I said walking over to the tea stand and saying, "Ek Chai
denna, chini nai," meaning one tea please without sugar.

"You
can't stay here in the station. Let me get you a hotel."

"I
have a place to stay," I said looking at the papers. Nothing in English. I
asked where an English paper was and the man selling them gestured toward
the exit.

"Then we'll take you to your place to stay," he said
aggressively.

"No, leave me alone," I said.

"You must be tired. You need to take a rickshaw to your
hotel."

"No, it's too early."

"Hotels are open
twenty four hours."

"It's a family's place. I don't want to
bother them."

"It's their duty to take care of you when you
arrive," he said forcefully.

"I want a newspaper, to go
somewhere and read and drink more tea and wait till seven."

"No! You should go now!"

"Quit telling me what to do!" I said.
"Leave me alone!" But he wouldn't. He just kept pounding at me insisting
that I go with him to get a rickshaw immediately. Drinking my second tea
in small plastic cup I noticed an Indian businessman looking at me with
embarrassment. The rickshaw provider persisted. Finally I pulled out my
trump card, something to say I'd gathered from - I don't know where - but
it's very effective.

"I do not want to buy drugs from you!" I
said to him loudly. Heads turned. He looked puzzled, disturbed. "I do not
want to buy drugs from you!" I repeated and kept repeating it till he went
away, went away running. The businessman smiled.

I've heard it said that if you think you're a peaceful,
loving person who doesn't get angry, wouldn't ever yell at people, just go
to India. So far I'd say, go to Northern India.

I stepped
outside the main door of the large station to see hundreds of people in
the dark sleeping on the pavement in front. I walked through them to the
street. A man walked up to me, "Rickshaw sir?"

"No thanks. I want to find a newspaper, read it and get more
tea. Where can I get an English newspaper?"

"Down
there," he pointed to a light a ways off across a side street at the edge
of the station property. I thanked him, grateful that he wasn't like the
guy before, walked there, got The Times of India probably, and walked back
to the front of the station. The same guy who'd showed me where to get the
paper was there. Someone was standing with him - the first guy, the overly
aggressive one. I realized they were a team.

"Oh no," I said.
"Come on, tell me. Where can I get some tea and sit down?"

They took me across the street a good distance in front to a tea stand. I
ordered one, went in, and sat on a wooden chair at a bare wooden table. I
think the rest of the men there were rickshaw drivers because of their
brown shirts and pants. They smiled at me. My two would-be drivers sat in
front of me.

"Would you like some tea?" I asked. They nodded.
I got them each a tea. I think they were four rupees each.

I sat there and read the paper while they drank their tea and
the aggressive one glared at me. "Are you ready yet for your rickshaw?" he
asked.

"No no no," I said. "Not for a long time."

"Well," he said with hostility, his hand at his neck, his teeth gritting.
"Maybe we should just take you out of here, cut your throat, and take you
to a hospital for the commission." He drew his hand across his throat to
demonstrate.

"Okay," I said turning the page. "Just let me
finish the paper first."

"Oh! Humph!" he grunted with
exasperation, turned to his friend, and barked, "Let's leave this
asshole."

"Goodbye," I called out as they left.

An
hour later a very nice young plump man with glasses, sort of nerdy
looking, drove me in his rickshaw to my guest house where I took a shower
and a nap.